<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Grace by majorhtom</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669321">Grace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom'>majorhtom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Under [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>In the Loop (2009) &amp; The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brexit, COVID-19, Child Death Mentions, Chronic Illness, Coronavirus, F/M, Flash Forward, Illnesses, Major Illness, Malcola, Terminal Illnesses, angsty in parts, mentions of stillbirth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:16:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nic’la, I need a kidney transplant.” Malcolm blurted out.<br/>Nicola stood there stunned among a sea of people protesting for a People’s Vote. “What?” She asked, so sure she’d misheard.<br/>Malcolm walked over to her. “I’ve been on dialysis for the past two years. I need a transplant.” </p><p>Malcolm Tucker has survived a lot and he is, in more ways than one, very damaged, both physically and emotionally. Not that he would admit it of course.<br/>However, a chance encounter with Nicola Murray on his sixtieth birthday has the potential to change his life.<br/>(Sequel to Going Under. You might want to read that before reading this, but you don’t have to.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sam Cassidy &amp; Malcolm Tucker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Under [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Nic’la, I need a kidney transplant.” Malcolm blurted out.</p><p>Nicola stood there stunned among a sea of people protesting for a People’s Vote. “What?” She asked, so sure she’d misheard. </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>Malcolm walked over to her. “I’ve been on dialysis for the past two years. I need a transplant.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola grabbed Ella by the wrist.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mum!” Ella protested.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola ignored her. “Malcolm... how?!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I had sepsis nine years ago.” Malcolm explained. “I went into septic shock and had multiple organ failure. My kidneys failed and I had dialysis for about a month before functionality returned. And it didn’t come back a hundred percent.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh my god.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And add that to all the chemo I’ve had, the medicine I’ve taken, the alcohol I’ve drank and the drugs I’ve... snorted...”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your kidneys are failing <em>now</em>.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm put his hand in his pocket and said nothing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Careful not to hit Malcolm with her picket sign, Nicola put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.” She pulled away from him after a few seconds. “What about your sister? Is she not a match?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She’s living back in Glasgow.” Malcolm said. “Kinda went off the rails after I went on trial. Dan ran off with his Vegas wife. Elspeth’s on drugs in foster care and she’s a teen mam whose son is also in foster care while Keir’s... um... he joined a gang and he was stabbed to... death.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh my god.” Nicola exclaimed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Okay. None of that’s strictly true.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm!” Nicola snapped. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I mean Dan didn’t run off with a Vegas wife. But Moira really really <em>did</em> move back to Glasgow. But she had a job opportunity there that I encouraged her not to pass up. I wouldn’t want to drag her back down to London and worry her. She’s been through enough.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What about your niece and nephew?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm shrugged. “They’ve adjusted.” He said. “And they’re both still in school. Neither of them are parents or in gangs. They’re happy. They all are.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wait... Malcolm, you haven’t told them you’re sick, have you?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re the only one who knows.” Malcolm said. “Besides, Moira already donated her bone marrow to me, I wouldn’t want her to donate a kidney.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you’re dying.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not dying.” Malcolm insisted. Though he didn’t know if that was true or not. His kidneys were failing, he was seriously ill and if he didn’t get a donor soon... well, he <em>would</em> die. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mum, come on.” Ella whined. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola said nothing. She simply stared at Malcolm trying to comprehend the situation as hundreds of people passed by. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nic’la, go with your daughter.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But I’d feel bad about leaving you.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll give you my number and we can meet up when this thing’s over, yeah?” Malcolm offered. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You could come with us.” Ella offered. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can’t do that.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes you can, Malcolm, I’m not leaving you alone.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm considered this for a moment before nodding. “Alright, fine.” he said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ella was holding her picket sign in the air and chanting along with the rest of the crowd. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm walked over to Nicola and her daughter, but felt his knee give way under him. He thought he was past all this. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm!” Nicola exclaimed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m fine.” Malcolm said, pulling himself to his feet. He picked up the picket sign that Nicola has given him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is this related to your kidney issues?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I just lost my footing. That’s all.” Malcolm said. “It’s hard to see when you’re in a crowd.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola nodded. “Yeah. Yes, you’re right.” She smiled awkwardly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I told you, didn’t I, ten years ago that the first sign of madness is paranoia.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am not paranoid.” Nicola said and turned to her daughter. “Alright, let’s go.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ella nodded and resumed shouting and chanting with Nicola joining in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm simply held his picket sign and remained silent, hoping that Nicola wouldn’t find out that there was something else wrong with him. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is the sequel to Going Under. It will cover things like the 2019 General Election, Christmas, Brexit, the COVID-19 Pandemic and CumGate as well as any other shit that gets tossed our way. <br/>It’s also going to explore Malcolm’s past and how he ended up the way he is now. Some of which will even be funny!<br/>Remember the sepsis in Going Under? And there was this bit in Chapter 6 that wasn’t brought up again;<br/>“Malcolm was sitting up in a bed back on the haematology ward. He’d mostly recovered from the sepsis, at least physically. His kidneys still weren’t working at full capacity and probably never would again, but his doctors were satisfied that he didn’t need dialysis or a transplant-at least not just yet.” <br/>I didn’t drop that thread. This is where that particular plot point comes into play. <br/>Something else is up with Malcolm. Something he’s not telling Nicola. Something he’s definitely keeping to himself.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Flash Forward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A warning for mentioned child death here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola walked into her empty home. <em>Malcolm’s</em> home. Full of his memories. He was gone now, but there were still questions left unanswered about Malcolm Tucker and they were questions only his memories could answer.</p><p>Nicola took off her shoes and looked for his home videos, the earliest were from the 80s. And as a bonus, he’d had them already transferred them to DVD. Trying her best not to cry, she set up the DVD player and the telly and put the DVD on. </p><p>“<em>Malcolm, wit ye doin ye bawbag?</em>” Asked a voice behind the camera.</p><p>“<em>Ah’m na doin anythin.</em>” </p><p></p><div>
  <p>That was Malcolm. Her Malcolm. Young. Stress free. Smiling and happy. With a beer bottle in one hand and a fag in the other. Standing on a beach wearing nothin but shorts and and a t-shirt with his wild hair blowing in the wind.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ye smokin, man.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ah’ll smoke if I wannae.</em>” Malcolm took a drag from his fag and flicked it onto the sand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ye cannae smoke. Wit example ye settin tae Moira?</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Moira’s eighteen.</em>” Malcolm said. “<em>She can drink too. Bum a fag.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Where ye been bummin yer fags frae?</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Peter</em>.” Malcolm chuckled, throwing himself backwards in the sand. “<em>Useless fucker. Nice bloke.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola knelt down on the floor and laughed through her tears. That sounded like Malcolm. But at the same time it didn’t. If Moira was eighteen, he was twenty-two. It must have been 1982. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A woman came from offscreen carrying an acoustic guitar. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You wanted this.</em>” She said, sounding upper class.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Aye, ta.</em>” Malcolm said, pushing himself up and taking the guitar. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The woman sat down next to him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was at that moment Nicola realised she’d seen the woman before. Malcolm had pictures of her in this room. Then she noticed the wedding ring. That was Malcolm’s first wife. Elaine.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm began to play the guitar and sing a song. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola had never heard Malcolm playing the guitar before. She’d never heard him singing before. She’d never seen him smile so brightly before. She had difficulty believing that was Malcolm Tucker. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’d always heard from Malcolm that working for government had left him a husk of his former self. Now she could see it. She could see just how much he’d changed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola left the video running and went into Malcolm’s cupboard under the stairs where he kept all of his old things from his rockstar days and pulled out a box of photos. She carried the box back in front of the telly and she began to look through them as the video played. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm and Elaine were dancing barefoot in the sand together to the Human League and laughing and just generally having a good time. Nicola had never seen this side of Malcolm before and it was clearly a side he’d long since buried. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I met the Human League at the BRIT Awards earlier this year.</em>” Malcolm said. “<em>Also met Soft Cell and The Police.</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I know that, Malcie, I was there</em>!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcie?” Nicola whispered with a laugh. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“-<em>whoever watches this!</em>” Malcolm pulled Elaine closer and kissed her on the cheek. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>It’ll be our kids.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Not while I’m out there winning awards for my wonderful contributions to British music-</em>“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Steady on, Mr Ego!</em>” The voice came from behind the camera. “<em>And you’re not paying me to watch you kiss!</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ian, I’m not paying you at all!</em>” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ian. Malcolm’s brother. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was like a punch in Nicola’s gut. Everyone in this video was dead. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She looked down into the box of photos and picked up a stack. She looked at each one-Malcolm looked so happy and he was grinning like an idiot in each one. Light in his eyes. Like whatever crushed him hadn’t done so yet. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then there was a picture with Malcolm on stage. And another with the rest of his band. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola turned the photo around and recognised four names in Malcolm’s scrawl. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Me (Malc). Donald. Angus. Duncan. </b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola guessed easily that they were the other members of Malcolm’s band. But putting names to faces was a bit harder. She put the photo down and picked up another one and she froze. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That was her in the photo next to Malcolm. Nicola recognised herself. And it was no wonder she hadn’t recognised Malcolm earlier. He was dressed like a punk rocker with his long, wild hair and bright and happy eyes. And his smile. His genuinely happy smile. He looked so different when Nicola first met him to when she next met him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The video had changed. Malcolm was on screen playing with his band in front of screaming and cheering spectators. A girl’s voice was cheering him on.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Malcolm! Go Malcolm!</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It didn’t take long for Nicola to realise that the voice was the person filming’s as whenever she would shout ‘Malcolm!’, the camera would bob up and down.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It had to be Moira’s voice. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola carried on looking through the photos. There were photos of places she recognised, like Paris and Barcelona, but others that were labelled at the back as stuff like ‘Czechoslovakia’, ‘Yugoslavia’ and ‘West Germany’.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Some of them Malcolm was in while in others he was not. Some had other band members in them too. Not all of the photos were labelled either. Some were and others weren’t. But that’s how Nicola learned that the chubby drummer was Angus, the bald bassist was Donald and the smaller, other guitarist was Duncan. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola switched out the DVD for another. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In this one, Malcolm was outside wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, but still smiling that big genuine smile with those same sparkling blue eyes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Why are you grinning like that?</em>” That was Elaine’s voice.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I’m living my dreams!</em>” Malcolm said. “<em>It’s hard not to be happy! Not when I’ve got a good rockstar life and the best wife I could have ever wanted.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You really know how to charm a woman, Malcolm</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>That’s why you married me-we both know it wasn’t for this!</em>” Malcolm gestured to his body and started awkwardly disco dancing and singing the song Fame. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola couldn’t help but laugh as she wiped away some of her tears. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Malcolm!</em>” Elaine giggled playfully. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Hey, if Russia and America are going to obliterate each other, we’ll be caught in the crossfire and we may as well have fun.</em>” Malcolm sang, still to the tune of Fame. Still dancing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola’s heart sank. She’d almost forgotten about the threat of nuclear annihilation in the 80s.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Oh Maggie you’re a cunt, in a war with Argentina, Maggie, Hey Maggie!</em>” Elaine sang to the tune of the song Mickey. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That smile of Malcolm’s turned into a toothy grin pretty quickly. “<em>Pish</em>.” He said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Hey, you were the one who came up with that one!</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>When she invaded Argentina, that was just two months ago the war ended.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola reasoned that this was August 1982. It had to be. The Falklands War ended in June 1982 and two months later would make it August. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“-<em>don’t lie.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ah’m na lyin</em>.” Malcolm put his arms around Elaine and kissed her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was easy for Nicola not to feel jealous. Elaine had been dead for eleven years before she’d met Malcolm. Or at least the version of Malcolm she knew. She knew that Malcolm had loved Elaine, but he also had moved on. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm walked over to the camera and picked it up. Then the screen went blank. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola opened the DVD player and swapped the DVD for another one. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm was playing an acoustic guitar with his band backing him in a folksy style song. They were playing in front of a Christmas tree and decorations at what looked to be a local venue.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>So rot in hell, Maggie Thatcher</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>When you’re dead and gone</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>All those you fucked over will dance on your grave</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And there’ll be parties to celebrate</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Nobody likes you, Maggie Thatcher</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>The miners hate you most</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Argentina isn’t too far behind</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola quickly put two and two together. It was December of 1984. The Miners Strikes had been happening that year and were still going on.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“-<em>in Ronald Reagan’s palm</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Ruling with an iron fist</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Fuck you, Maggie, get out of office now</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s singing voice wasn’t the best. It wasn’t great. But it was perfect to deliver the kind of raw anti-Thatcher hatred that this song called for. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Rot in hell, Maggie Thatcher</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Trying to privatise the public’s shit</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>That shit is not your shit to sell off</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>You’re nothing but a lying, thieving bitch</em>-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola could feel the hatred in Malcolm’s words. It was almost like being back at DoSAC and having him scream in her face because of a computer error or something. <em>This</em> was much more like the Malcolm that she had come to know. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ye couldnae jus be Milk Snatcher</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Fuck ye an yer police brutality</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Ye ne’r declared war in Argentina</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Ah cannae wait until yer deid </em>an Ah get tae dance on yer fucking grave, ye bitch!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Now <em>that</em> was the Malcolm that Nicola knew so very well. Shouting so angrily that spit flies everywhere. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Thank you, yeah, that was Rot In Hell, Maggie Thatcher</em>.” Malcolm said over the applause. “<em>We would like to erm... affirm our support of the Miners Strikes-“</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola ejected the DVD and put a new one in.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm didn’t have wild hair anymore. He’d cut it short. Gone was the punk style for a stereotypical 1980s style; a colourful shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a jean jacket. And big sunglasses that covered his eyes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Though Malcolm was smiling, Nicola could already tell, however, that he had started to change because that little sparkle he had in earlier videos... it was gone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>It’s a lovely day in London today.</em>” That was Elaine’s voice. She was behind the camera. “<em>Malcolm, wave to the camera or something.</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm took off his sunglasses which revealed the dark circles underneath his eyes. “<em>Yep. Hey. This is London.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Elaine swivelled the camera around to reveal a terraced house. “<em>And this is our house in...</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Croydon</em>.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Croydon</em>!” Elaine repeated cheerfully. “<em>It’s our day off work today so we figured to go to St James’s Park to feed the ducks.”</em> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>We have to get the train for that.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Why can’t we take the Underground?</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Because there is no Underground station at Croydon.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>That’s not fair.</em>”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>It’s why Croydon is dirt cheap, I suppose.</em>” Malcolm put his sunglasses back on.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola wondered what could have changed from Malcolm clearly having the time of his life singing angrily about Margaret Thatcher to Malcolm packing up and moving to Croydon and getting a job. His style had changed so radically as well. He didn’t look happy. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Again, Nicola switched out the DVD, hoping to find what changed in him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>And here we are in the bedroom, which, look at it now</em>.” Malcolm’s voice while Need You Tonight by INXS played in the background. He was behind the camera now. He also sounded much happier. He turned the camera around to show off his and his wife’s bedroom-the bed, the curtains, the telly, so far none of it looking very 1980s. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm waved into the mirror and it was obvious where the 1980s was-it was all on him! He was wearing a patterned shirt and what looked to be Hammer Pants and Adidas shoes. He was also sporting what looked to be a mullet. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola couldn’t help but burst out laughing. She wiped her eyes and smiled genuinely for the first time that Malcolm had passed-his fashion sense in the 1980s was completely terrible. So was his music sense as the song had changed to Kylie Minogue’s I Should Be So Lucky. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The year had to be either 1988 or 1989. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm looked to be happy however as the sparkle in his eye was back. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Now I’m going to take you to...</em>” He opened the door and walked out. The camera stayed on his feet as he walked until he lifted the camera to a bright yellow room. “<em>The nursery!</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Elaine appeared on screen looking very pregnant. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It hit Nicola that this was 1989. Either February or March. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>It’s where our wee Maisie will sleep when she’s born.</em>” Malcolm said. “<em>Ah cannae wait tae meet ye ma wee babby. Yer da loves ye, ye ken.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I’m sure she knows, Malcolm.</em>” Elaine said. “<em>Please change your hair though. I don’t want the first emotion she experiences to be fear at that mullet of yours.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Why would it be fear?</em>” Malcolm asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Cut your hair or I’ll do it myself.</em>” Elaine said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola stood up and picked up a photo from a shelf; Malcolm holding his daughter. She noticed that he had changed his hair. It was still long, but the mullet was gone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>My wee Maisie will grow up to be so loved by both of her parents,</em>” Malcolm said, “<em>but especially me.</em>” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola noticed the expression on Malcolm’s face in the photo and felt her heart breaking. Malcolm really had wanted to be a father. He was excited for it. He loved his daughter before she was born. He loved her in the photo. And he loved her afterwards; he loved her so much that he kept her cremains in his bedroom and read to them every night. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And then she understood why he had fought his whole life to keep his daughter secret. It wasn’t to protect himself. It was to protect <em>her</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The video changed and Malcolm looked different. He was wearing ripped baggy jeans, a t-shirt and a red flannel shirt. His hair was wild and curly and just generally all over the place. Though he was smiling, the sparkle in this eyes was absolutely gone. It just wasn’t there. No hint of it. He had his hands in his jean pockets. REM’s Shiny Happy People played in the background.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Mon. Say somethin.</em>” A voice Nicola recognised as Jamie’s said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ye want me tae sing Shiny Happy People, aye</em>?” Malcolm asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This was Summer 1992 at the earliest. Malcolm hadn’t met Jamie until spring 1992. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Na it’s fuckin pish</em>.” Jamie said. He came onscreen looking like Kurt Cobain. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In fact, Nicola thought both of them looked like they belonged in a grunge band. And that when Malcolm was around Jamie or his siblings, he sounded way more Scottish than usual.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “<em>REM are pish</em>?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Nah, they’re guid. Shiny Happy People is pish.</em>” Jamie said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Turn it the fuck off then.</em>” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jamie walked over to the radio and turned it off. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Not going to play for your new friend then?</em>” Elaine asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Play what?</em>” Jamie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Oh</em> <em>Malcolm plays guitar.</em>” Elaine said. “<em>It’s why I put the camera on-</em>“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Oh turn it off.</em>” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You play guitar</em>?” Jamie asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I don’t play anymore</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You’re good you know-</em>“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>I’m one hundred percent committed to my job at the Herald.</em>” Malcolm said. “<em>No more music</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Elaine walked closer to the camera. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>You can be a journalist and play too.” </em>Jamie said. “<em>I play the drums and-</em>“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Elaine picked the camera up and the screen went black. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola turned the telly off. There was still so much of Malcolm’s things left to go through. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah. This. This is... I apologise deeply for this. Malcolm Tucker is dead. Like he is Not Coming Back dead. It hurt me too, but it was ultimately what was best for the narrative.<br/>However, his story still isn’t over. There’s a lot-well, some-still left to come.<br/>Notes.<br/>It was jarring to write Malcolm as being a happy young idealistic adult. Just as it’s probably jarring to read.<br/>To ‘bum a fag’ in the UK means to ‘ask someone for a cigarette and not pay them back’.<br/>Peter is not Peter Mannion. Nor is it Peter Capaldi. It was just a random name I picked from Family Guy. I imagine he’s a friend of Malcolm’s.<br/>So Malcolm’s won BRIT Awards with his band! Wait, he was in a band? We need to hear more about this, right?<br/>Human League, Soft Cell and The Police all won awards at the 1982 BRIT Awards.<br/>Malcolm’s band mates’ names. If you get it, you and I should be friends.<br/>The first video takes place in August 1982 as well, but around a week earlier than the second.<br/>The Falklands War lasted 75 days. It started in April and ended in June of 1982.<br/>The Miners Strikes went on from 1984-1985 and the miners lost. Maggie Thatcher’s Tory government completely smashed them and absolutely obliterated Britain’s mining industry in the process.<br/>The mental image of Malcolm Tucker wearing 80s clothes was too much to pass up.<br/>There is no Underground at Croydon.<br/>The mental image of Malcolm Tucker wearing a mullet and hammer pants was too much to pass up.<br/>I’m sorry about late 1980s Malcolm and his daughter. I really am.<br/>The mental image of grunge phase Malcolm Tucker was too much to pass up.<br/>The idea of Malcolm sounding more Scottish comes from in S2E1, Malcolm sounds a lot more Scottish when he’s around Jamie than when he isn’t.<br/>I really don’t like the song Shiny Happy People.<br/>All lyrics belong to... me!<br/>That’s right, Rot In Hell, Maggie Thatcher is my song. Or at least that one. I’m sure other people have written songs called Rot In Hell, Maggie Thatcher. I wrote mine when Thatcher died and I hoped she was burning in hell. And it’s in a folk style because I was in a folk band. I played the banjo.<br/>So notes about the song:<br/>“All those you fucked over will dance on your grave” basically inspired by Elvis Costello’s Tramp The Dirt Down where he says he’ll... do exactly that.<br/>“And there’ll be parties to celebrate” people did have parties to celebrate Thatcher’s death. There’s a reason Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead hit number 2 in the charts.<br/>“The miners hate you most” because she put them out of their jobs.<br/>“Argentina isn’t too far behind” did you know that in the Falklands War, neither the UK or Argentina declared war on each other? That makes it technically not a war at all. Technically.<br/>“Fuck you, Maggie, get out of office now” I changed these lyrics to that from ‘fuck you Maggie, I hope you’re burning now’, because she was not dead in 1984.<br/>“Trying to privatise the public’s shit“ another lyric changed from ‘You privatised all the public’s shit’, because she was still dismantling national services at the time.<br/>“That shit is not your shit to sell off“ another lyric changed, but I only swapped the word ‘was’ for ‘is’.<br/>“Ye couldnae jus be Milk Snatcher<br/>Fuck ye an yer police brutality<br/>Ye ne’r declared war in Argentina”<br/>Translated badly into Scots. But her name was Maggie Thatcher Milk Snatcher for a reason.<br/>The Miners Strikes were known for police brutality.<br/>Again, nobody declared war in the Falklands War. But Thatcher did climb into a tank for some fucking reason.<br/>“Ah cannae wait until yer deid an Ah get tae dance on yer fucking grave, ye bitch”<br/>Changed from “I’m glad you’re dead so I can dance on your grave”.<br/>I just couldn’t see Malcolm not singing a song like this. Especially given how hated Thatcher was and remains.<br/>If you were wondering about my political affiliations, they are socialist, Labour, Welsh nationalist, independent Wales/Scotland, United Ireland, dissolution of the remains of the British Empire (oh yeah, that obsolete old thing still hasn’t really gone yet so...)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Coffee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola did indeed take Malcolm’s phone number after the March and they did arrange to meet in a Costa Coffee for a drink the next week.</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><div>
  <p>Malcolm sat on his bed and looked around his bedroom for clothes he could wear-he didn’t want to come across like too much of a slob, but at the same time, he didn’t want to dress up too fancy. It was just a coffee and a catch up with a friend, after all. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm, have you still not decided what you’re going to wear?” Sam asked as she walked in the room. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Give me a break, I’m having a bad day.” Malcolm said. “If I just put on what I wore yesterday, then I’ll come across like I don’t care about myself. But I also don’t want to seem like I’m dressing up for her.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What a dilemma.” Sam said sarcastically. “How about just casual?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I wore casual yesterday.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I know you have more than one pair of jeans. And more than one jumper.” Sam said. “I’ve seen you in them.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, but... I can’t get them, can I?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What do you mean you can’t get them?” Sam asked. “You <em>can</em> stand, right?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm nodded. “Of course I can stand.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good, because I thought we’d been over this-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I was sick nearly three years ago, Sam.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That may be true, Malcolm, but-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But nothing.” Malcolm said. “Just... can you please get me a clean pair of jeans and a jumper?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam nodded and did as Malcolm asked, handing him a clean pair of dark jeans, a grey t-shirt and a light blue jumper. “I’ll let you get dressed, then.” She said, leaving the room and closing the door behind her. </p>
  <p>She made her way downstairs and into the living room, where she had a look through Malcolm’s extensive DVD and BluRay collection and saw there were a few new titles or at least ones she hadn’t yet noticed, including the newest Star Wars films. In he end, she sat down on the sofa and started playing Candy Crush on her phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm followed down the stars around ten minutes later wearing everything but shoes and also having combed his wild hair into a state of semi-submission. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not shaving are you?” Sam asked after looking up from her phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” Malcolm replied.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam’s gaze was drawn to Malcolm’s feet. “You do look a bit unsteady.” She said. “Maybe you should consider not going-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m sure Nicola Murray would understand-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Absolutely not.” Malcolm shook his head. “I <em>am</em> going. Because that’s what normal people do.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t say you weren’t normal.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You were thinking it.” Malcolm sat down to put his shoes on. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If you insist on going, you’ve always got the wheelchair.” Sam said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not using that <em>thing</em>.” Malcolm said with disdain. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That ‘thing’ has afforded you a lot of freedom you wouldn’t ordinarily have with your condition.” Sam pointed out. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can’t let Nicola Murray see me in it-she knows about the kidney failure-“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I told her.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam sighed loudly in indignation. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If she sees me in a wheelchair, she’ll think I’m about to kick the bucket.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You <em>have</em> been going to your appointments, haven’t you?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm bent over to tie his laces. “I had one yesterday.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, but did you go to it?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Of course I did.” Malcolm said. “I was there for five hours.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I believe you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You <em>should</em> believe me-how long have we known each other now? Nearly twenty years?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam nodded. “Twenty exactly.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Jesus.” Malcolm muttered, leaning back on the sofa. “If our relationship were human, it’d have come of age two years ago.” </p>
  <p>”I suppose so.” Sam said. “And the worst thing you did in all that time was lying on trial-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I did <em>not</em> lie!” Malcolm snapped. “That was <em>all</em> on Alastair Campbell-he’s had it out for me ever since I wrote a letter of resignation as him and sent it out to Tony Blair and the media after the Hutton Inquiry.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“How do you think he would react if he saw you in your wheelchair?” Sam asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He’d accuse me of faking and tip me out and it would be at that point I would punch him in the face and break his nose for being an idiot.” Malcolm replied in an oddly calm tone. “He’d probably have me arrested again, but I’d probably be able to get off in self defence.” He checked the time on his phone which he then shoved into his jeans pocket and stood up. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If you’re not going to use the wheelchair, at least use the crutches.” Sam said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re not my mother.” Malcolm said. “You’re not my sister. We aren’t married. We just live together temporarily.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Because we <em>are</em> friends and I don’t want to have to go to the morgue to identify your body because you lost your balance and fell in front of a car.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm considered this for a moment knowing that she was right, and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll grab the stick.” </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola ordered her drink and went to sit down at a table. She was scrolling through her phone, paying no attention to who was entering and exiting-this <em>was</em> London after all, when Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy started playing and she recognised a familiar Scottish accent. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, could I just have a filter coffee please, black-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola looked towards the counter to see Malcolm Tucker, wearing the same oversized blue sweater, but leaning heavily on a walking stick. She couldn’t help but wonder whether his illness had worsened. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When Malcolm had got his drink, in a cardboard cup, he brought it over to Nicola’s table. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So um... what’s going on there?” Nicola asked, nodding at his walking stick. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fashion statement.” Malcolm replied as he sat down. “Thought I’d try and be a bit more like Jacob Rees-Mogg.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola nodded sceptically. It had to be related to the kidney failure. Not that she knew that much about it. Then it hit her. “Malcolm... should you be drinking coffee if you’re on dialysis?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can drink coffee.” Malcolm replied. “I just have to have it black and record it in my daily fluid intake diary.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I wouldn’t know.” Nicola said. “I’ve never known anyone with kidney failure before.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Now you have.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So... how have you been?” Nicola asked. “That is how’s your week gone?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I had my dialysis. Called my sister, niece and nephew everyday on Skype. Went to work.” Malcolm shrugged. “A pretty normal week for me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve had a normal week too.” Nicola said. “My youngest is in sixth form, my oldest has one herself, so-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re a grandmother?” Malcolm asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm, I’m in my fifties. My oldest daughter is twenty-six.” Nicola said. “It seems like just yesterday you were berating me for Katie not going to sixth form and wanting to send Ella to a private school.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That was when we were both ten years younger and I was a <em>lot</em> healthier.” Malcolm took a sip of his coffee. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You were much more aggressive back then too.” Nicola pointed out. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s a shame you didn’t know me before I went into politics.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div><p>“What happened to make you the way you are?” Nicola asked. </p><p>“Uh... ah.” Malcolm put his drink down on the table. “Well, I was born. I grew up. I went to uni. Got married. Got a job as a journalist. My brother died. My wife got pregnant. We lost the baby. I got addicted to sleeping pills. We both got new jobs as journalists. My wife was diagnosed with cancer. I got into politics. My wife died. I got addicted to alcohol. My father died. I got addicted to cocaine. My mother died. I got addicted to heroin. I had a massive overdose and went into a coma. I got clean. My niece was born. I got promoted to director of communications and strategy. My nephew was born. I met you. I got diagnosed with cancer. I nearly died. I lived. I got arrested and charged with... crimes. I got diagnosed with cancer again. I lived. I joined charities. I voted Remain. My sister moved away. I met you again. Does that answer your question?” </p>
<p></p><div><p>“I meant did you have a happy childhood?” Nicola asked. </p></div><div><p>“Oh yeah. Very happy.” Malcolm said. “I was born premature so my mam was always worried about me.”</p></div><div><p>“I-I didn’t know.” Nicola said. </p></div><div><p>“You wouldn’t.” Malcolm replied. “I was apparently supposed to be born in early December, but I decided to put in an appearance in mid October instead.” </p></div><div><p>“And you survived?” Nicola asked. </p></div><div><p>Malcolm blinked in disbelief. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?” </p></div><div><p>Nicola chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, of course. Silly question. Your mother worried about you.” </p></div><div><p>“Aye. A lot. I couldn’t do anything without being wrapped in cotton wool. It got worse when I was four and broke my leg falling out of a tree and I was put in a body cast-“</p></div><div><p>“Wait, what?” Nicola asked. “Why would they do that if you just broke your <em>leg</em>?”</p></div><div><p>“It was my femur.” Malcolm explained. “They did that so I wouldn’t move my leg or twist my hip. I was four. You’ve had four four year olds. You know what they’re like. Anyway, that was my mam’s worst nightmare, plus she was very pregnant with my sister Moira. If anything, it made her more strict since she viewed me as ‘fragile’.” </p></div><div><p>Nicola nodded beginning now to understand Malcolm’s mentality. </p></div><div><p>“I asked my parents for a bike for Christmas when I was six, but all I got was a toy Dalek. Tried again the next year and got one. They wouldn’t let me ride it, so behind her back, Ian, my older brother, taught me how to ride it. Then I fell over the handlebars and broke my arm. My mother grounded Ian for months.” Malcolm sighed. </p></div><div><p>“You were the favourite kid then.” Nicola said. </p></div><div><p>“I <em>was</em> the favourite kid.” Malcolm said. “My mother went out of her way to protect me. I was not a strong kid. I was shy and hid behind my Mam or Dad. I got bullied a lot at school and by the neighbourhood kids. One of them smashed my head open by pushing me down the stairs at school. I was a weak little punching bag.” </p></div><div><p>“Your sister told me years ago.” Nicola said. “It still doesn’t sound like the Malcolm Tucker I know.”</p></div><div><p>“You know the Malcolm Tucker from your days in DOSAC. But that wasn’t Malcolm Tucker. You <em>do not</em> know him. Truth be told, I don’t know him anymore either because he died a long time ago, but I still have his memories.” Malcolm said. </p></div><div><p>“What changed in you?” Nicola asked gently. </p></div><div><p>“My daughter was born.” Malcolm said quietly. “That was the start of it. My wife... she went for a scan. We were told our baby had died. Elaine was forced to give birth. She was perfect.” He put his head in his hand so Nicola wouldn’t see him almost crying. “It looked just like she was sleeping.”</p></div><div><p>Nicola had no idea how Malcolm felt. All four of her children were still living. One of them being dead was her worst nightmare. “How long ago was it?” </p></div><div><p>“Thirty years ago.” Malcolm replied. </p></div><div><p>“You carried this around with you all this time.” Nicola said. She put her hand on Malcolm’s. “Why didn’t you just say earlier? Not a few years ago-“</p></div><div><p>“Because you wouldn’t have <em>feared</em> me, you would have <em>pitied</em> me.” Malcolm said. “Look, there goes the fucking widower whose brother died of AIDS and whose daughter was stillborn. How fucking sad for him.” </p></div><div><p>“I wouldn’t have-“</p></div><div><p>“You so <em>would</em> have.” Malcolm said. “And even if you <em>personally</em> didn’t... other people would have. I mean, I didn’t even tell <em>Jamie</em> about her. And we knew each other for nearly twenty years.” </p></div><div><p>“So you just kept it buried like some dirty secret?” Nicola said. “Like you’d gone to a Travelodge with a guy after cottaging in the public toilets and caught chlamydia?” </p></div><div><p>Malcolm pulled his hand away. “My daughter is not-” </p></div><div><p>“I never said she was, Malcolm.” </p></div><div><p>“You implied.” </p></div><div><p>“You don’t talk about her at all.”</p></div><div><p>“I don’t talk about her because it‘s too painful!” Malcolm shouted. “Because when she died, part of Malcolm Tucker died with her!” </p></div></div><div>
  <p>The cafe went quiet and everyone looked at Malcolm. The song changed to Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud and on Ed Sheeran singing the first line of the song, Malcolm’s eye twitched with rage. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm please.” Nicola said. “Calm down. Listen to Ed Sheeran-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I fucking hate Ed Sheeran.” Malcolm grumbled. “Fucking balding ginger cunt.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nice to finally hear you swearing again.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Nic’la, do you believe in god?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Erm... it depends on the god.” Nicola replied. “I mean, I don’t believe in Allah-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not asking about Allah.” Malcolm said, sounding slightly irritated.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I-I suppose I do believe, maybe a bit in the... god.” Nicola said. “But I’m not an active worshipper.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t believe in any of that.” Malcolm said. “It’s all a load of fucking twaddle.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What makes you say that?” Nicola asked. “Why would you ask me and then say ‘no it’s twaddle’?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm briefly considered the question. He thought about his parents having to scrape to get by. He thought about being bullied and beaten up as a kid and teenager. He thought about being a poor student in the time of Margaret Thatcher. He thought about his brother’s death from AIDS and all the refusals to hold a funeral. He thought about being told his daughter was dead and carrying her tiny coffin to be cremated. He thought about his wife being diagnosed with cancer and then dying. He thought about his parents dying within months of each other. He thought about his struggles with addiction. He thought about the time Steve Fleming pushed him out of his job. He thought about his own cancer diagnosis and brush with death. He thought about Jamie’s death. He thought about Alastair’s betrayal. He thought about all the months he spent in hospital and the stem cell transplant he had to get from his sister. He thought about the weeks he spent in a rehabilitation facility after his freak illness. He thought about his diagnosis of kidney failure. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Because if there was a god, he or she or it or fucking <em>whatever</em>, well they wouldn’t allow Ed Sheeran to exist.” Malcolm said. “Ed Sheeran’s mere fucking existence is evidence enough for me against a god existing. I mean listen to that fucking warbling. He sounds like a sick cat on heat.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I get it.” Nicola said through gritted teeth. “You don’t like Ed Sheeran.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“There’s a lot of people I don’t fucking like.” Malcolm took a sip of his coffee. “I’m still not on good terms with Julius Nicholson after what happened last Christmas.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hang on-you’ve been in contact with Julius Nicholson, but not me?” Nicola asked incredulously.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve been in contact with a lot of people.” Malcolm said. “Julius, Tom, Cal, Glenn, Peter-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Peter?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mannion.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’ve been in contact with <em>Peter Mannion</em> and not <em>me</em>?” Nicola’s incredulity turned to borderline anger. “The man’s a flaming Tory!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And my old PA’s been living with me the past few months.” Malcolm continued, ignoring Nicola’s small outburst.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sam?” Nicola asked. “You two are a thing?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No it’s er...” Malcolm scratched his nose with his thumb. “It’s a platonic-and temporary-thing. There was a fire at her flat.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola nodded. “Ah. Right. I didn’t know that behind all that swearing you weren’t really a monster.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah I’m not-I don’t care.” Malcolm said. “I don’t care.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your actions indicate otherwise.” Nicola said. “So are you just in touch with everyone except me?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh I don’t know what Terri or Ollie are doing. Or your advisor, what was her name-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Helen.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. No idea what they’re doing.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What about Robyn?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am in contact with precisely <em>zero</em> civil servants.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No. As a member of the Opposition, I’m not allowed to either.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I know that Glenn has this weird thing going on with Robyn-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Really?” Nicola asked. “I mean I always got those kinds of vibes from them.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not <em>that</em> kind of thing.” Malcolm leaned closer towards Nicola. “They’re hate-fucking.” He whispered loudly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola nodded. “Oh. I thought you said you weren’t-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm straightened up in his chair. “And I’m not. I’m in contact with <em>Glenn</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola took a sip from her drink and they continued talking. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Much to Nicola’s surprise, Malcolm invited Nicola back to his house. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What about Sam?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She’s gone out.” Malcolm said as he stood up. “Are you coming or not?”</p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p>Inside Malcolm’s house was a much more beautiful space than Nicola ever imagined it to be. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. Maybe a dungeon from what she remembered of Malcolm and his psychological torture. But instead, his home looked just a regular family home. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola looked at the photos on the walls-there were a lot of Malcolm’s family, but she recognised two others in the photos and they were Jamie and Sam. There was a framed photo of an ultrasound scan that she just couldn’t stop looking at. Was that Malcolm’s niece? Nephew? The daughter he said he’d had but died? Another child?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Maisie.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Pardon?” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My daughter.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m sorry.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm pointed out an old framed picture of a man who looked kind of like him. “My brother, Ian. He died of AIDS. They refused him a proper burial because of it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“God...” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Every </em>picture in here, Nic’la, is of someone I’ve lost.” Malcolm said. “Wife. Sister. Daughter. Brother. Parents. Best friend. There were more kids. All of them miscarried.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Suddenly it was like a light switch turned on in Nicola’s brain. Malcolm wasn’t vicious or twisted or evil. He was just very badly broken both mentally and emotionally. And when he said ‘every picture’, he meant <em>every picture</em> because somewhere along the way, he’d also lost himself. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It’s my birthday today! I had a cake and no, it didn’t read ‘Happy Birthday Cunt’ on it, it just had the Disney Princesses on it. I am now the ripe old age of 27 which means I am no longer a young Person or considered to be a member of Young Labour. This makes me very sad (I am still a member of Labour but I’m not happy with Keir Starmer and his lot allegedly sitting on accusations of antisemitism, but that’s neither here not there).<br/>Anyway, onto the notes.<br/>Yes, Malcolm and Sam are living together. Why wasn’t Sam at the protest? Well, she had to work overtime, but she was protesting in spirit.<br/>The song choices weren’t subtle.<br/>Jacob Rees-Mogg. Ah. If you don’t know him, if you’ve never heard of him, google him. He is the living stereotype of a Victorian upper class British person that even the BBC has mocked him for when newsreader Huw Edwards called him ‘the Minister For the 18th Century’.<br/>So Katie’s had a child now. Not by a Nigerian people smuggler. Probably.<br/>Alright, think of the first line of Thinking Out Loud. If you don’t know/remember, google it. I have a paraplegic friend who absolutely loves this song and I can say with utmost confidence; disabled people have the most twisted sense of humour.<br/>“Balding ginger cunt” is what my mother calls Ed Sheeran any time he’s on the radio.<br/>Malcolm is in contact with a lot of his old friends, even though he doesn’t work with them anymore.<br/>The ‘fire at her flat’ line was not supposed to be evocative of Grenfell. If it is to you, please accept my sincerest apologies.<br/>Yes AIDS victims in the 80s were refused proper burials-it was bloody horrific the way they were treated.<br/>I don’t see Malcolm Tucker as ‘a monster’, I see him as broken, damaged and very lost. Something terrible clearly happened to him in his past for Peter Capaldi to say that he was playing him as a ‘recovering addict’.<br/>I’ve been there myself. I was picked on a lot. Bullied and teased and beaten up, developed depression and so on. Later on, I became an NUS rep and I practically turned into Malcolm Tucker. I was screaming in people’s faces, orchestrating drama for my own entertainment, swearing, making violent threats. In the end, the coursework and the union Rep work got on top of me and I felt the strain. It was no longer fun, but I wanted to hang onto the power. Then it happened. My Quiet Batpeople moment. What happened? I failed my course. But the need for that little bit of power, well it’s never really gone away.<br/>Maybe he is a monster, maybe I’m a monster. But he’s the only character who’s polite and even kind to Joe Public. That alone tells me that he’s not the twisted villain everyone thinks he is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. M&S</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was Halloween and Malcolm was out shopping alone. After an argument with Sam, because she caught him lose his footing and fall when he said he’d been having a Good Day, she’d managed to convince him that he was actually having a Bad Day and to go out in his wheelchair. Though they happened less frequently three years later, there were times he still needed it and so he hung onto it. Mainly because it was custom made especially for him. But this was one of those times. </p><p>No sooner had he (literally) rolled into M&amp;S he bumped into his old friend Julius Nicholson. </p><p>“Hello, Malcolm.” Julius greeted cheerfully. “Happy Halloween. You’re looking rather short today.” </p><p></p><div>
  <p>Malcolm rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Ha ha. You’re just lucky I didn’t sever my optic nerve. Blind <em>and</em> in a wheelchair?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You weren’t in that the last time I saw you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I have used this for years, Julius.” Malcolm said. “The last three. You know, ever since they told me that I’ll be paralysed from the chest down.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you aren’t.” Julius said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No I am not.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So why are you seated?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm shrugged. “Because I’m lazy. Or maybe it’s because my health just doesn’t concern you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius chuckled. “Yes. Yes, good one, Malcolm.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I try my best.” Malcolm said, his fingers twitching over the hand rim. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s it like being in a wheelchair?” Julius asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s it like being bald?” Malcolm countered. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’ve been bald, Malcolm-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“From chemo. It were temporary. As you can see, I have wonderful long white hair now. You are still bald.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Perhaps it’s best we don’t air our grievances publicly in a Marks and Spencer.” Julius said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Aye. You’re right.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It is nice to see you though, Malcolm.” Julius said. “Perhaps we should stop for coffee sometime.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not a chance.” Malcolm said. “I can’t drink-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You can’t <em>drink</em>?” Julius repeated. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, I can. But not a lot.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why not?” Julius asked. “Is it related to your alcohol abuse problems?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m on dialysis!” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, I had heard you had kidney failure.” Julius said. “Trying to keep it quiet, are you? Like you did with the cancer?” He asked. “And what’s this I hear about you seeing a psychiatrist?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m not.” Malcolm said defensively. “That’s a lie.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius hummed, not quite believing. “You’ve come down with a bump since your days in government.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“More than a bump.” Malcolm muttered. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, you’ve crashed and burned, haven’t you?” Julius said. He walked past Malcolm and pushed the door open. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm turned and quickly followed. “What the hell’s <em>that</em> supposed to mean?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I mean that perhaps this is karma.” Julius said. “You had an excellent team of lawyers after the Chilcot Inquiry that were able to get you an extremely light sentence that meant you never saw jail time. But we both know, Malcolm, that you have committed some serious crimes, even if you did not alter that dossier yourself.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What are you talking about, man?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You lied at the Leveson Inquiry.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ve lied at a lot of inquiries.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, you know you aren’t quite helping your case.” Julius said. “While I am very sorry you had cancer, twice, and that weird disease I can’t quite pronounce and I am also sorry to hear of your mental health struggles, I struggle to find a way to say that you didn’t have this coming.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm stared at Julius. “What mental health struggles are you talking about?” He asked in a low voice. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well... it’s around Whitehall that you have written a suicide note.” Julius said in an equally low voice. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. That was supposed to be his own personal thing. Nobody else was to know about that until he actually did it. <em>If</em> he actually did it. “Who the fuck told you that?” He hissed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Everyone knows, Malcolm. It’s common knowledge.” Julius said. “It came out about the time that it was revealed that you were in rehabilitation for paralysis. It was assumed that you couldn’t handle being disabled and wanted to... you know.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, Julius, I don’t know.” Malcolm said. “Because I am not the main character of a drippy romantic snuff movie.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re not in government now. I can’t understand why you still talk like you are.” Julius said. “Is it because you had a poor upbringing?” He tutted. “You were brought up in Gorbals-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, I was born and raised by heroin addicts who physically abused me simply for breathing which caused me to get on the stuff myself at age four, but that was before I was raped by priests and molested by nuns.” Malcolm said with a straight face. He crossed his leg over the other. For added emphasis, he folded his arms. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I assume you’re joking. Or at the very least, you aren’t being serious.” Julius said, looking down at Malcolm’s legs. “But that’s not a very nice thing to joke about.”<br/><br/>“Of course I’m not.” Malcolm said. “I’m not, nor have I ever been, Catholic. And I was <em>forty</em> not <em>four</em> when I became a heroin addict.”</p>
  <p>“Forty.” Julius nodded, still looking at Malcolm’s legs. “Of course, I remember that. You melted down right in front of David Frost on Sunday morning telly.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Eyes are up here.” Malcolm said, pointing to his face. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You can move your legs.” Julius said, almost in surprise. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You know full well I can.” Malcolm said. “You just said earlier that you hadn’t seen me in a wheelchair for a while and that I can move my legs.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m sorry, yes.” Julius said. “I did say that.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Shall I just... stand up for you, Julius? Get up out of this and stand up?” Malcolm asked. “Because physically, I can-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm Tucker?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s blood ran cold and he swallowed nervously. Ordinarily, nothing unnerved him except his regular blood tests and that was only in case the cancer came back. He didn’t fancy going through another two years of not being able to eat, vomiting everything up, betwetting, sweating, sleeping all day, being in agony all over his body, getting poked with needles seemingly every five minutes and shitting himself. But this was different.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He awkwardly unfolded his arms and turned around. “Nic’la.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What the <em>fuck</em>, Malcolm?” Nicola blurted out. “What-why... you’re in a wheelchair!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And Julius Nicholson-you <em>knew</em> about this?” Nicola asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“He knew.” Malcolm said. “He’s seen me in this before.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Why</em> are you in a wheelchair?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s my Professor X cosplay.” Malcolm said. “Happy Halloween.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh god.” Nicola put her head in her hand. “Your kidneys have got <em>worse</em>, haven’t they?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, this isn’t a kidney problem.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s something else, isn’t it?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’ve told her about the kidney failure but not about your legs?” Julius asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Shut up. I only saw her for the first time in six years two weeks ago.” Malcolm said. “The topic didn’t exactly come up.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What topic?” Nicola asked. “Have you got some kind of degenerative neuromuscular disease?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you going to tell her?” Julius asked. “She is supposed to be your friend-or rather she was all those years ago-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm turned to Julius. “Get lost, Julius.” He said. “And don’t you call me, <em>I’ll</em> call <em>you</em>.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Julius nodded. Not wanting to intrude on the conversation, he walked back into the M&amp;S that he had just walked from. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm.” Nicola said sternly. “Tell me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm scratched his eyebrow with his thumb. “Ah.” He smiled awkwardly. “I had a... a non-cancer illness that also put me in the hospital for a few months. And it left me with muscle weakness in my legs.” </p>
  <p>“But you can walk.” Nicola said. </p>
  <p>“I’m not a paraplegic if that’s what you mean.” Malcolm said. </p>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>“Can I ask-why is it red?” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“For the Labour Party.” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Why doesn’t it have handles?” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“It does, but they’re folded down because I can push myself-“</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Most importantly-<em>why</em> do you need a <em>wheelchair</em>, Malcolm?” Nicola asked. “What illness did you get that leaves you with muscle weakness?” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“An autoimmune one.” Malcolm replied. </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Does your sister-“</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Yes!” Malcolm snapped. “Yes, she knows! She was-she was fucking <em>there</em>! She was with me when it happened!” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“What was ‘<em>it</em>’ though?” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Guillain-Barré Syndrome.” Malcolm replied. “Causes paralysis, loss of sensation, incontinence,  pins and needles, muscle weakness, and fatigue.”</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Were you paralysed?” Nicola asked quietly. </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Malcolm nodded. “Yep.” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Nicola turned away and shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ.” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“I’m not <em>now</em>.” Malcolm said. “It was pretty temporary. But when I was recovering, Moira moved to Glasgow.”</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Why would she do that?” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Because she knew I had Sam.” </p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>“Where is Sam right now?” </p>
  </div>
</div><div>
  <p>“Living with me, her flat burned down. You know this, I told you last time.” Malcolm said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh my god.” Nicola shook her head. “I’m fucking dreaming.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah.” Malcolm said. “This is my life. I have to have blood tests all the time to check my cancer isn’t back and that my body isn’t reacting to the stem cell transplant I got from my sister, which I am actually on immunosuppressive medication for. Three times a week I roll on into the renal clinic where I spend hours getting my blood removed, put through a machine and pumped back into my body while doctors check I’m taking all my relevant medication while I wait for a transplant and that I’m not drinking too much liquids because that could literally kill me. Once a week, I have physiotherapy appointments for my legs-for which I also have to take medication for. And every so often, my body craps out on me so badly, I need to use a wheelchair just to be able to go and do my weekly shopping. So yeah you’re not the one dreaming here-<em>I</em> am. And I am trapped in a fucking waking nightmare.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola stood in place, looking shocked. She hadn’t heard any of this before, but she knew Malcolm’s health wasn’t the best. She just didn’t know it was <em>that</em> bad. And she <em>still</em> suspected he was holding something back. She just wasn’t going to press it. He would say when he was ready.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm. I-I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “So what are you doing here?” He asked. “It’s bad enough I run into Julius, now I run into you too. What is this, 2013? Of all the nine million people I could have run into, I ran into both of you here on the same day?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bad enough?” Nicola repeated. “And here I thought you liked me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Would you like me to pray for you?” A random passerby asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fuck off.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I said fuck off.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The random man scuttled away. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You haven’t changed a bit.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Believe me, Nic’la, I’ve changed a lot.” Malcolm said. He uncrossed his legs and put his foot back down on the footplate. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can fucking see that!” Nicola blurted out. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm shook his head. “No. It’s fine.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is that why you were using a walking stick the last time I saw you?” Nicola asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm inhaled sharply and nodded. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola was completely lost for words. She had failed to realise just how vulnerable Malcolm Tucker really was, even if he wouldn’t admit to it himself. And she noticed a familiar look in his eyes and etched on his face, only she couldn’t quite place it. Exhaustion, maybe. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can’t believe you’ve been living like this.” She said. “You were fine the day of the People’s Vote rally.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes. Yes I was.” Malcolm said. “I was having a Good Day. Now I am having a Bad Day. And I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you’d be in the House of Commons waving off John Bercow.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, we’ve done that already.” Nicola said. “Yesterday at PMQs.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I liked that fucker too.” Malcolm said. “He wasn’t too bad. For a Tory. Met him a few times when he worked with Tom for special needs kids. And he showed up to Jamie’s funeral-“ He stopped at the mention of Jamie and his death and frowned. How could he have said that so matter-of-fact? Jamie had been his best friend. Sure they hadn’t talked for six months when Tom was elected leader. Sure they’d had to talk to each other through Ed and even that was mostly insults. But when it came down to it, they‘d loved each other deeply. And there had been so many things that were left unsaid between the two of them. Malcolm regretted that. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you okay?” Nicola asked. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m fine.” Malcolm lied. “Just fine.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Look, I’ll see you around yeah?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why don’t you spend Halloween with me?” Nicola offered. “Katie’s coming with her husband and they’re going to bring their boy Noah around for trick or treating and later, we’re all going to watch The Shining.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm ran a hand through his barely tamed white hair. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Sure. Why not.” He said. “I think I could do with the distraction.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola nodded. Without thinking, she bent down and hugged Malcolm, who sat there stiffly, not making any attempt to hug back. After around ten seconds, she pulled herself away. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I forgot you don’t like hugs.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t be.” Malcolm shook his head. “It <em>is</em> Halloween after all. A day dedicated to horror. And there’s nothing more horrifying than being hugged... by somebody you used to work with. And verbally eviscerate.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll text you my address.” Nicola said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Happy Halloween.” Malcolm said. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola took one last look at Malcolm, in utter disbelief with how far he’d fallen. There was a time when he ruled the world. Now he was wearing jeans and a hoodie and shopping at Marks and Spencer. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So Malcolm’s not dead yet. And he is a part-time wheelchair user. He doesn’t need it all the time. Or even most of the time. He has Good Days and and he has Bad Days.<br/>Malcolm is right, though Julius is his ‘friend’, he doesn’t owe him an answer with regards to his health.<br/>If you aren’t British, M&amp;S is Marks and Spencer. It’s a shop where the well off, rich, famous and politicians shop, same as Waitrose, but even I in all my chavvy* glory go shopping there sometimes for the Percy Pigs. God tier sweeties those are.<br/>*Chav=White trash**, basically. It’s a bit more nuanced than that, but that’s about the gist.<br/>** Yes I really did just call myself white trash. I’m also a bus wanker***, what else can I really say?<br/>*** A pejorative for someone who uses public transport as popularised by Britcom The Inbetweeners.<br/>So is Malcolm seeing a psychiatrist? Yes. Yes he is.<br/>If you want to know more about the suicide note, it’s covered in Before You Go in the chapter Moira.<br/>The ‘drippy romantic snuff movie’ Malcolm is referring to is Me Before You. I hated that movie so much. The ending was like ‘disabled people can’t be happy so they’re better off killing themselves’ and I’m like ‘I am very happy, fuck you very much’.<br/>Gorbals, at least when Malcolm was a child, was a rough area of Glasgow. Very rough. No, VERY rough.<br/>Child abuse is not a nice thing to joke about at all. However, it lines up with Malcolm’s character as a thing to joke about (‘My dad used to hit me and so did my mam’ to ‘no, sorry to disappoint but I had a wonderful childhood) As well as a thing for other people around him to joke about (Helen’s ‘Didn’t you get enough cuddles as a child?’).<br/>Julius’ reaction to Malcolm moving his legs-society has a weird tendency to think every disabled person is in a paralysed and in a wheelchair, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. 15% of the world’s population is disabled. Not all of that 15% uses wheelchairs. In the UK, 14m people, out of a population of around 68m, are disabled. 1.2m are wheelchair users, around 400,000 or so use them part-time. Somehow, there seems to be a stigma around this.<br/>Red is good. It is the colour of the Labour Party. I wear a lot of red when I’m with them. It’s also my favourite colour so I wear a lot of it anyway. But when I hang out with the Labour Party, I’m with a lot of other people who wear red. And I doubt Malcolm would be like ‘yeah, fuck it, blue’ when picking out a wheelchair, no. We know from S2, S3 and S4 that he’s not loyal to his leaders, he’s loyal to his Party. A bit more than heavily implied (when they refer to the Opposition as being ‘right-wing’ and ‘insane’) to be Labour.<br/>Yes Guillain-Barré does cause those symptoms. In some the symptoms are permanent. In others, they make a full recovery. Some are... in between. Nobody’s the same. And it is thought to be an autoimmune disorder.<br/>Yes, the population of London is slightly under 9m with an average of 60,000 tourists visiting a day. I know, right? Feels like much more. The chances of Malcolm bumping into both Julius and Nicola at the same M&amp;S is pretty low. You’d think.<br/>People do ask to pray for you if you’re disabled. It’ annoying. I hate it.<br/>John Bercow stood down as Speaker of the House of Commons on Halloween 2019, the date the UK was supposed to but didn’t Brexit. His last PMQs (Prime Minister’s Questions) was that on the 30th October 2019.<br/>Bercow started out a raging Tory, a Thatcherite. Who idolised Enoch Powell and his infamous Rivers of Blood speech. He changed. He changed so much that he nearly did cross the floor to Labour and now describes himself as ‘a liberal leftie’ who ‘hates the Tories’.<br/>Since Tom Davis is a Gordon Brown stand in, of course John Bercow worked with him and the Labour Party on a committee for special needs kids. Which is what the Real John Bercow did. He worked for Gordon Brown and the Labour Party on a committee for special needs kids.<br/>The Shining is an alright film. Not the best. Not the worst. Just alright. But perfectly decent for Halloween.<br/>Next time, Malcolm ‘enjoys’ Halloween with Nicola and her family.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Flashforward 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>“First off, I want to thank everyone for coming. Especially those who’ve travelled far and during a global pandemic.” Nicola said. “My husband, Malcolm, led an extraordinary life.” She continued. “He was born to the Scottish Mhairi McGregor and the Irish James Tucker, prematurely, and brought up the middle child of three in Gorbals, sandwiched between his older brother Ian and his younger sister, Moira.” She looked over at Moira, who was holding her daughter’s hand in the pews. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm’s parents were strict with him because they loved him. Of course, despite this, he managed to grow up normally with a few broken bones, scrapes and fights. He went to university where he studied Journalism, joined a band and on graduating, recorded four albums and won two BRIT Awards.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola chuckled awkwardly through her obvious sadness. “Malcolm never told me his band’s name. Though I already knew it as ironically, and as fate would have it, his band would be the first rock show I went to when I was in uni with my friends.” She looked at the casket behind her. “I never did tell him that we met back in 1983 during one of his gigs. Perhaps I should have.” She mused. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I was Malcolm’s... second wife.” She said. “He married his first wife Elaine in the 1980s when they were in uni together. He carried on with his band until his brother Ian died and took a job at the paper his wife also worked at. Malcolm and Elaine had one daughter, Maisie, who died. Malcolm... then met his closest friend Jamie and they were together for much of the 1990s. Malcolm experienced a lot of tragedy in such a short space of time when his wife, father and mother all died. By now, he was doing what he was best known for; working for the Labour government.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola paused as she looked down at her eulogy and what she would say next. “I’m not going to say that Malcolm was a good man. Most of us here in this room... we know that he wasn’t. He was an extremely... complicated man. His heart was often in the right place, but he went about it the wrong way. He spent most of his time repressing his own trauma, so much that he’d eventually lost who he was. But he always tried his best. And when he loved, he loved with all his heart.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola lowered her head and wiped her tears. She cleared her throat loudly, trying not to let people know she was crying. “Yeah. I met Malcolm in 2009. Eleven years ago. The very first thing he did was berate me for... my family. And he called me an omnishambles. I know, that makes him sound horrible, but he really wasn’t. He was just under a lot of pressure.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola paused. “When he fell ill with leukaemia the first time, I went to see him in the hospital a lot and I got to see a new side of him. A kinder side. Like I was seeing the ‘real Malcolm Tucker’. We grew close and trusted each other, even after he’d recovered. But by the time the Chilcot Inquiry came around and Malcolm was arrested, he’d cut ties with me.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We met again last October. On his sixtieth birthday. He seemed to want... a relationship with me. And I wanted to be friends with him again. When the UK locked down because of COVID-19, we moved in together with my kids and his beloved niece Elspeth. Ellie. It was then I got to learn about Malcolm’s past. Lockdown came and went. Again and again. And Malcolm’s health started deteriorating. His cancer had returned, but because of lockdown waiting lists, he couldn’t get treatment, much less a referral.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola wiped her eyes again as she fought the urge to sob. “We grew closer. Malcolm and I. Romantically. Even though he was... in pain. Even when we learned that his cancer was terminal. He-he asked me to marry him. I... I said yes.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Nicola paused and took a few deep breaths. “We had eighteen days together as husband and wife. I’m grateful for that. I loved him. I always had. Malcolm was an atheist. So I don’t know if he’s with his dead family and friends... Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. I like to think he is. And he’s helping people. Playing music. Bollocking ministers.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That line elicited teary laughter in the crowd.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I may not have known you as long as some of the others in this room, but I’m always going to miss you, Malcolm. And I’ll see you soon. Dreamboy.” </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know what I said about the next chapter being Halloween. That should be this one. But it’s this Nicola eulogising Malcolm now. I’m just feeling in that sort of a mood. <br/>The next chapter will definitely be Halloween 2019.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>